


switch

by decidingdolan



Series: your words (my songs) [2]
Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: Eamon's rabbit makes a special appearance, M/M, Perspectives, Second Person, three times Conor was at Eamon's door and three times Eamon's thoughts run amok in his head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eamon and Conor. the thoughts they left at the door, and the ones they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	switch

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: based on the characters featured within the FICTIONAL film, Sing Street. in no way related/meant to resemble any real persons, living or dead.

 

> _"You are the sky, everything else is the weather."_
> 
> _\--Pema Chödrön_
> 
>  

* * *

_one._

side a.

First thing you saw was Darren's curls. Kid's hair could breathe fire, you were convinced. And those freckles, peppered across his pale skin. There was no mistaking the little chatterbox's face.

Your eyes shifted, right, focused on the blurry figure in their corner you'd been avoiding—the way one tended to flip over vinyls when one'd found a record that caught one's eye. 

And then you saw him.

 

side b.

Darren's voice echoed in your ears, standard introduction stuff. Pleasantries. ‘Are we interrupting you’ by way of a polite ‘What are you doing.’ A thought crossed your mind.

Thoughts, actually. Multiple. Running wild, synapses popping when you blinked and took in that face.

 _Have we met before?_ you wondered. _Have I seen those eyes before?_

Because, and you'd never believed in deja vu's, he appeared familiar to you as the boy next door. A neighbor. Wiz kid who moved away for unexplained reasons when you were six. A bespectacled family that uprooted itself one morning before you woke up.

Fabricated biographies. While Raphina was pressing on your mind, you could still go on. Weaving these stories from the pale green pools that were his eyes.

Glasses framed his face, cheeks tainted pinkish from the bits of sunshine he was exposed to. Eamon squinted when he was talking to Darren, eyes turned into slanted vertical lines.

The redhead said your name, and Eamon stared, pale greens widened and targeted on you. Self consciousness rose to your throat, the oversized brown corduroy jacket somewhat prickly on your skin all of a sudden.

The skin beneath your black eye started throbbing, and you started thinking, 

_What if he doesn’t like me?_

 

side a.

 _Smartass_ materialized in your mind when you met his eyes. Determined pale greens mirroring your own. Lad’s got a mild black eye, the bruise obvious and burning against his skin, but otherwise his was a friendly enough face. Eyes that were inviting, certain. More sure of himself than he needed to be. Cheeks too full completed whole boyish charm thing he’s got going on. The black hair disheveled and uncombed, fresh out of school canteen.

A corner of his lips lifted just then, when Darren introduced him. The lad jerked his chin in your direction, by way of greeting, and you nodded back.

_Conor, is it?_

_Think we’ll get along just fine._

 

* * *

 

_two._

side b.

_It’s ten. He’s probably asleep._

_No, he’s not._

_Ten. p.m., Conor. How’d you expect him to always be there when you ring the doorbell at his place?_

_…I don’t know. I just_ do.

_You’re an absolute—_

 

Shh, mind.

You got back on your bike, cycled around the block to his place. In the dead of the night, yes. At ten fucking p.m., yes.

_Don’t know if he’ll be there. Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. Doesn’t hurt to take a risk. Doesn’t hurt to try._

If rock n’roll was a risk, if you needed to learn how not to play, then maybe throwing the gushing feelings in your head at the wall would give you something. Something worth writing about.

_Feelings don’t announce themselves, that’s just the way they are. They creep up, pat you on the back, and ask to be written._

The first person you thought of was him.

 

side a.

Charlotte’s breathing hard. She knew sometimes, your curled-up ball of fur. Either the world was ending or someone was at the door.

You chose to believe the latter, most of the time.

The doorbell rang, the next second: a harsh, blunt buzz. You heard Ma groan, turn over in the bed, and continued to snore.

“C’mon,” you said to Charlotte, scooping her up in your arm, “We’re going for a little walk.” You bent down, eyes zeroing in on her beady blacks. “I’m not done with you yet, you know.”

Pulled the lock off the door and who was standing there but pretty boy Conor.

You shot out your greeting in a blurb of a sentence. Charlotte lay still in your arm, barely a wiggle. It’s been a while since she didn’t get excited at the sight of (or rather, ignore) a stranger. The rabbit purred, heart vibrating against your sweater, blurring in with Conor’s response.

“I don’t know,” he said, a jumbled mess of a sentence (sounded more like _I-un-naw_ in your head).

 _Cute._ Your mind jumped before you could stop it.

Conor paused, eyes flitted between Charlotte and you, and laid out his _real_ greeting.

‘What’re you doin’’

Now that’s one you had no idea how to answer proper. Squinted, like when you were thinking, and answered. Charlotte raised her paws, might have known you’d mentioned her.

Conor glanced at the rabbit then, eyes lofty and faraway. For a second you found yourself guessing where he was off to. The yellowed lights from outside did not help much.

But your reply to his follow-up question slid off your tongue, effortless, like you’d known his reason for ringing your door all along.

 

side b.

You tagged along with Brandon to buy cigarettes once.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” you said, few steps away from the local shop. He was teetering on seventeen, you just past eleven. Ann had refused to come, on principle. (Naturally). “Mum said not to.”

Bless your tiny eleven-year-old heart, _bless it_.

Brendan laughed, bright and hearty, the kind you missed hearing from him these days. “Hypocrites,” he pushed open the door to the shop, “And what do them lot do, huh?”

You shrugged, cornered. Stunned into wordlessness by the young cashier.

“Three packs, eh, lads?” the scrawny guy peered at Brendan and you from his place behind the machine. Tilted his head as he crossed his arms on the counter and leaned forward.

Your heart lurched, bent. Almost split into pieces.

 _What if_ , asked your head. _What. If._

Your heart’s doing the exact same dance just now when Eamon raised his eyebrows at you. A bit like that, yeah.

_Too bad._

(And you hardly knew why.)

Anxiety melted into surprise the moment you spotted the rabbit in Eamon’s arm, hanging there, snug, a black and white fluff.

“Just rabbit stuff,” he said, and the creature raised its paws, as if to acknowledge its owner’s introduction. Your head went into a small spin.

_What kind of name for a rabbit is Char—_

_How many of them does he—_

_What does ‘stuff’ even consist—_

_Does he just go around petting rabb--?_

“Do you want to write a new song?” you rattled off the question before you could tie yourself up with more.

His reply was a song in itself.

 

* * *

 

_three._

side a.

Daylight.

He’s at the door again, the songwriter.

Day and night, you’re seeing him. Almost all hours, more than anyone. More than any friend. (More than any rabbit.)

You used to wonder why (or when) you’d grant him the privileges. Let him have the rights. To come knocking at your door whenever he felt like it and expect you to be there.

One look at those pale greens when the door open and your reasons disappeared.

 _What song is it today?_ sounded in your head instead.

From the look of those eyes, it’s a slow one.

The band’s going to say it’s ridiculous. They’re going to blame him for it. Blame you for it. You’d go on your typical routine, agree with them, say it’s insane, and end up following his lead anyway. 

_Mysteries. It’s like you want to. It’s like you’re seeing those pleading eyes and can’t let go._

You’d been hiding it—you thought. This unexplained attraction, this exclusiveness. He’s vying after some girl, and you’ve no place, no place at all, in his love story.

_It’s always about some girl, isn’t it?_

_And you’re always going to be The Best Friend._

Best stick to where the spotlight shone.

Best to smile, run your eyes over him the way your hands, your lips wouldn’t be able to—wouldn’t have a chance to, and say, “Always.”

 

side b.

You just noticed the painted black sign on the side of Eamon’s door.

 _Beware the rabbits_ , declared the letters in solid brass.

Made you chuckle inside, despite the circumstances (so you’re a _fifteen-year-old schoolboy_ to her. No big deal. What’s the story in that? How’s it worth being upset over her?

But your thin heart took it hard, like you’d commanded it not to. Soaked in hurt, and acidic over pain, like that’s the way to pen good lyrics.

Maybe.

You’d find out.)

Because death by rabbits wouldn’t be a half-bad way to go. Buried underneath all that fluff. And Eamon would be there, too, scooping up every rabbit he could under those arms. Taking you in with them.

(Mhm.)

He’s standing in front of you now. The same scene. Things coming full circle since you had first met. Feet first at his steps and ringing this door.

“Always,” he said. Always, and your heart, bruised and battered and a little shaken, swelled to three times its size.

Always, and you had to resist that peculiar urge to gather him into your arms.

His eyes’ following you as you stepped in.

There’s something there. There’s definitely something there. But you’re not sure what, and he’s too tight-lipped to say.

You’re too closed up to try.

Always. He’d struck the certainty note with you, gave you his word. It’s a promise, the ultimate ‘okay.’

‘Always,’ and you’d swore to yourself to find out what exactly he meant.

One of these days, Conor. One of these days.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for stopping by, reading, and/or reviewing,
> 
> Your ever humble fanfic writer
> 
> x


End file.
